The Great California Game

“You showed us a new line, Lovejoy.” Nicko went slowly to the window, gestured for somebody to come, but take their time. “Though we’d learned plenty of other new lines. Property, hacks on harbours, airports, commodities, information tapping, computer miking, showbiz, religious flakes, lotsa old stuff. You showed us the power of antiques.” He turned, curious. “How come we didn’t see it before you came, Lovejoy?”

“You trusted reputations, Nicko. like famous auction houses —you think the great Fake exhibition at the British Museum could have come about without them? Or that Echt Vals Real Fake Exhibition a decade ago in Amsterdam? Or that terrorists aren’t a part of the antiques game, robbing simply to sell or ransom. You should read about Istanbul’s go-betweens.” My tone was growing bitter, hating the way antiques get it every time, treated like dirt except when money gets quoted.

“We don’t miss much, Lovejoy,” Gina said.

I rounded on her. Somehow I was standing. “Much you know, you stupid bitch. You miss the nose on your face. Can’t you see that in antiques there’s no suck thing as theft? Oh, there’s fraud all right, tricks a-plenty. But theft? Antiques laugh at it.”

“Prove you weren’t just a lucky bastard, Lovejoy!” Nicko was pointing at me.

“Shall I?” I yelled, in fury now it was all falling into place. “Shall I, you legalized murdering sods, the pair of you? Shall I? Seeing you let poor old Sokolowsky get crisped just to stay in with the syndicate? Shall I? Seeing you let Bill get run down for the same reason? Seeing you were willing to have me shot down, when they missed burning me in the Benidormo hotel blaze?”

He backed down, with an effort. “Some things have to be, Lovejoy. It’s a war we’re in. People get killed in wars.”

“Aye, you murderous pig, but not always the right ones.” I was so mad I couldn’t see for a sec, just stood there shaking. Magda and Zole could have died in that alley. Worse, so could I. Just like that Tony off the Gina, during my introduction to the whole rotten business. I just didn’t know who was right or wrong any more. Both sides played as dirty. I was so frigging tired, worn out.

“I’ll tell you,” I said dully. “Think back. That Gardner Museum theft in Boston—what was it, quarter of a billion, yesterday’s giveaway prices? They stole Vermeer, Rembrandt, ultimate antiques. Tot up the thefts of antiques for that and the previous four years, it comes to four billions, yesterday dollars.”

“And there’s no such thing as theft?” Nicko scoffed. The curtains wafted out. This time I didn’t hear the snick of the latch. I was past caring.

“You think you’ve proved me wrong? The Japanese Yakuza, the Mafia, all the terrorists and extortionists in the world know different. Heard of such a thing as the Statute of Limitations? Most countries have one. Time has a habit of passing. In a couple of years Monet’s Impression Sunrise, stolen from the Marmottan Museum, Paris, will emerge. The thieves can market the damned thing, immune by law. It’s legal now anyway—Japan’s statute of limitations is only two years.”

Gina asked, “Hasn’t it been recovered?”

I stared. I honestly don’t believe these people. “Aye, love. Fourteen times! Each time’s the one true genuine one.” I explained to ease their perplexity, “You see, love, once a special unique porcelain, bronze, ancient vase, piece of one-off furniture, painting, is stolen, there’s very little to go on to tell if what’s being offered for ransom is the one true original. Or a fake.”

“They do that?”

“The Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911. Half a dozen fakes were sold for underhand fortunes—until the genuine one walked in, years later. It’s routine.

“Ninety-five per cent don’t even get recaptured. Ransom’s a cool ten per cent of value. Your own Foundation of Art Research admits that only one twentieth ever come home anyway.” I smiled, hoping it was as wintry as Nicko’s. “But then the statute declares the robbers immune, and out they come. If there’s any hassle, they simply add some small blemish—slightly change a hue of the sky in one corner, enlarge the canvas perhaps. You law people make me frigging laugh. You think because an antique’s catalogued somewhere that nobody’ll buy?”

“But they will?”

“Give me the money and a month, mister. I’ll buy you any antique or art work stolen in the past two decades.”

“What about the ones heisted before that?”

“Advertise. Orly and Jennie’ll tell you. It’s quite legal.” I turned, made way for them to enter the conversation. “Antiques are the one currency that survives inflation, flood, financial panic.”

“Or fund laundering?” Jennie asked.

“Ideal. It’s all the better—you don’t have to give the artists their cut. They’ve already starved to death yonks ago.”

“No moral sheet, Lovejoy,” Orly said. He still hated me.

I turned, gave him my bent eye. “I hated you less when you were only a murderous crook, Orly.” I shook my head at Nicko. “No thanks, Nicko. No deal. Do your own dirty work.”

“He’s the one, all right,” Nicko said. “Book him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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YOU got that, Lovejoy?”

“Aye, love. Off pat.”

“Your story of what happened after the explosion?”